


The More Things Change...

by afteriwake



Series: A Different Path [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-17 21:18:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1402753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's life has taken a few turns for the better since he went back to his old life, and it looks as though things will keep improving as certain truths come to light between him and Molly and he makes another new friend. But Moriarty's reach is long and whoever is carrying out his plans isn't about to let him forget about the story Moriarty wants him to star in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one is a retelling of "A Study In Pink" for this particular AU. There will be similarities but also marked differences, but I'll try and hold true to the feel of the episode within the confines of this series.

It had been a little over a month and a half since his relationship with Molly had changed, and he could honestly say he was happy. He hadn't ever expected to feel that way, especially with the prospect of a long and drawn out game with Moriarty hanging over his head, but he was. They were taking things slowly enough that he was able to be comfortable with the change, and he appreciated that. So far there had been no hiccups in the process and he was hopeful that she would continue to be patient with him. He didn't think she'd suddenly start being demanding and pushy, because that would be out of character, but he still hoped for things to go smoothly.

The rest of his life was going fairly well as well, which had been a surprise, but not everything was perfect, or as close to perfect as he thought he could get. Earlier in the morning Mrs. Hudson had mentioned once again that it would be a good idea for him to take on a flatmate. He got paid for consulting with Scotland Yard, but it didn't pay anywhere near as much as his old job had. He had thought about trying to balance both careers but he realized it would have been much too hard to hold down a full time job as a research scientist and what was becoming a full time job as a police consultant, and that had been before he entered into a romantic relationship with Molly. All three of those things would have suffered, and since he considered the problem with Moriarty and his relationship with Molly to be vastly more important than money he had decided not to return to his former profession. Still, Mrs. Hudson had every right to demand to be paid on time and in full, even if he didn't have as much left over, and he was making every effort to do that.

He was between cases at the moment, though he suspected he would be asked to consult on one soon. He had seen in the news an increase of suicides, and this morning Lestrade had been hosting a press conference with the media, assuring the city there was no actual threat. Sherlock knew there was, however. There had been no logical reason for all those different people to kill themselves the same way within such a short span of time. Molly had performed each of the autopsies to confirm that they were indeed suicides and she had pointed out to both him and Lestrade that they each had the same drugs in their system. He had said they should investigate it as the work of a serial killer but Lestrade's superiors had disagreed, not wanting to cause a panic. Sherlock had fallen back on old habits and informed everyone in the room that they were not suicides by hacking into their phones. He knew eventually the media pressure would get so great that Scotland Yard would have to listen to him, but for now all he could do was wait.

He decided to head to St. Bart's to work on projects of his own while he was waiting. Even though he was no longer working in the research field it didn't mean that there weren't things he could study that didn't require him to be at a research facility, and that also didn't mean he didn't still talk to his old colleagues about professional matters. As it stood, one of them had asked him to verify some results by replicating an experiment he had performed, and he had everything he needed to do it in his lab at the moment. But first he was going to go pay his girlfriend a visit. The fact that he could even say he had a girlfriend had made him quite pleased. Not even the fact that Mycroft had tried to get her to spy on him two weeks prior had put a damper on that fact. She had chosen not to hurt him, and that had made him far happier than she had probably realized. He made his way into the morgue and Molly looked up from the autopsy she was doing, giving him a wide smile. She appeared to just be finishing, as she had been stitching the woman on the table back up. “Sherlock! Give me a moment and I'll be done.”

“All right,” he said with a nod.

“I'm glad you're here, by the way. I wanted to ask you something. Go sit in the office, all right?” He made his way into her office and sat down in the chair that wasn't hers, pulling out his phone and viewing things on it. Five minutes later she came into the office, and she leaned over and kissed him softly. “Here to work on one of your experiments?” she asked when she pulled away.

“Yes. A former colleague of mine asked me to look over some results last night and then replicate his experiment. He wants a second opinion before he submits his findings,” he said with a nod. “I'm still waiting for Lestrade to ask me to consult on that case we've talked about.”

“The suspicious suicides, right?” she asked, going to sit in her own chair. He nodded. “I watched the press conference this morning. You did something you weren't supposed to do, didn't you?”

“I may have done something on the illegal side, yes,” he said.

“I'm not sure I want to know what, exactly.”

“It's probably better that way.” He leaned forward slightly. “What was it you wanted to ask me?”

She looked at him for a moment, and it appeared as though she was debating something. He frowned. Surely they weren't having problems already, were they? Finally she spoke. “How would you feel about going somewhere with me for a week?” she asked.

“Like on a vacation?” he asked.

“Well, sort of. It would be a working vacation for me, though I suppose I won't be working all the time. I've been asked to attend a conference in three weeks in California. I'm representing this particular hospital's pathology department at the conference, and I'm supposed to pick up an award for the hospital at the ceremony at the end of the week. Dr. Krause was supposed to do it but his wife just gave birth earlier than they had planned and he doesn't want to travel so far away from his daughter so they thought I'd like to go instead. And I'm allowed to bring a guest. I thought maybe you might want to join me.” She paused after a moment. “If that's not too forward, of course.”

He relaxed. He had thought the question would be much worse. “If I'm free I would like to go,” he said with a grin.

“Good!” she exclaimed with a wide smile. “We can work out the details later, like if we want to share a room and get two beds or have two separate rooms. The hospital has said they'll reimburse me for travel and lodging expenses. I have some money saved up so I thought I'd splurge a little, go first class and stay at a nice hotel.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” he said as he nodded. “How long do we have to make the arrangements?”

“I'd like to book the flights and the hotel room as soon as possible. Probably tomorrow?” She looked over at him. “Will that give you enough time to decide how you want to do the sleeping arrangements?”

“Twenty-four hours should be sufficient,” he said after a moment's thought. He was already leaning towards sharing a room with her, but the question he had was whether they should have separate beds or share a large one. He had to admit, he didn't think he would honestly mind all that much if they ended up sharing the same bed. Nothing had to happen, unless she wanted it to, and if she did he wasn't sure he would be inclined to say no. Those thoughts had crossed his mind with more regularity lately and he was thinking he might be comfortable with the idea, especially if it could potentially happen a few weeks down the line. He watched her get up and after a moment she came over to him, settling on his lap. He ran a hand up and down her back, enjoying her being that close to him. He always enjoyed being close to her. He tried to be as close to her as he could when they were alone, and sometimes in public, too, though they didn't overtly act like a couple in public as there were a few paparazzi following him around. Even if Moriarty was locked up in solitary confinement there was always the chance whoever was monitoring his plans would realize Molly was important to him and go after her. He didn't want to think about her being hurt. “I was thinking this afternoon I could take you to lunch,” he said after she had gotten settled.

“I would really like that,” she said, looking down at him.

“What time do you think you'll want to eat this afternoon?”

“Around one? I have a backlog of autopsies to do and I want to at least finish three more before I take a break. I can come up to the lab you use when I'm ready to go, if that works for you.”

“That's fine,” he said with a nod.

She put her arms around his neck and smiled down at him. “How quickly do you need to get to work on your experiment?” she asked.

“I can spare a little bit of time,” he said.

“Good. Because I'd like to kiss you for a little while,” she said.

“You're at work,” he said, though he grinned.

“I'm in the morgue,” she said. “No one likes being down here unless they work here, and even then some people still don't like being here. No one is going to be cross with me if I spend some time kissing my boyfriend. It's not as though we're shagging on the floor.”

He chuckled. “You have a valid point.”

“I know I do,” she said with a nod. “So I believe there should be less talking and more kissing.” She leaned in more. “And you'll find I'm very amenable when I get my way.”

“I'll have to remember that,” he murmured before she kissed him. He had definitely gotten better the more they had done that, and he could tell that she was quite enjoying herself the more frequently it happened, which stoked his ego a bit. They hadn't talked about going any further, and he was certain she would wait until he felt comfortable with the idea before she broached it seriously, but for now he could enjoy kissing her without having to think about it escalating.

They continued for some time before she reluctantly pulled away. “Okay. _Now_ I should get back to work,” she said, playing with the lapels of his suit jacket for a moment. “And you should get started with your experiment so you don't have to be worrying about it when we have lunch.”

“I suppose you're right,” he said with a nod as she got off his lap. She grinned over at him as he stood up. After a moment he pulled her close, and in response she laughed and looked up at him. “One more before I leave?” he asked.

“All right. But it needs to be quick. Backlog, remember?” She leaned in and kissed him softly for a couple of minutes before she pulled away. “Now go. You're going to become a distraction if you stay down here much longer, and I should go back to work.”

“If you're sure,” he said.

“Oh, I'd much rather have you stay but then nothing would get done and I'd be yelled at.” She moved behind him and gave him a light shove towards her office door. He grinned and reached for the doorknob. “I'll be there around one,” she said as he opened the door.

“I'll be waiting,” he said with a nod before he left. He left the morgue minutes later and made his way to the lift, wide grin on his face. He was still wearing that grin when he made his way to his preferred lab. He took off his coat and suit jacket and hung them on the pegs before setting things up for the experiment he needed to run. He settled in to observe as soon as he had started it. He had always been patient when it had come to his experiments and his research. Other things had made him impatient, but science was definitely not one of those things. He was so focused on his research that he didn't realize someone had come into the room until they cleared their throat. He looked up and saw Mike Stamford standing there, accompanied by a man who was leaning on a cane. He studied the man, scanning him like he did everyone else. “Yes?” he asked Stamford.

“Were you still looking for a flatmate?” he asked.

Sherlock blinked. In his efforts to be a bit more social he had reached out to Stamford to rekindle their professional relationship. It had been Stamford who had pulled the strings to get him access to the lab at the hospital, after all. Occasionally their conversations drifted towards more personal things, but he couldn't remember bringing up he was looking for a flatmate. Then he remembered. Two weeks ago he had been talking about how he was making less money as a consultant and how his landlady was dropping increasingly less subtle hints that he make more of an effort to find a flatmate. He nodded after a moment. “I am.”

Stamford grinned slightly. “I think I may have found the perfect man, then. Sherlock, this is John Watson, an old friend of mine.”

John waved at him with his free hand. “Hello,” he said quietly.

Sherlock inclined his head. He looked at John intently. “Iraq or Afghanistan?” he asked.

“Pardon?” John asked, a confused look crossing his face.

“Did you serve in Iraq or Afghanistan?” he asked. “There's all these little signs that tell you're a recently returned soldier.”

“Afghanistan,” he said after a moment, his eyes wide. “What signs?”

“Your haircut, the fact that your tan doesn't go up past your wrist and the psychosomatic injury,” he said. “Among other things.” He reached for his phone to send a text to his colleague and paused. He hadn't brought up his phone with him. His colleague needed the results soon, too. “I need to borrow your phone,” Sherlock said, standing up.

“Why?” John asked.

“It's important.” He watched John pull his mobile out of his pocket and hold it out. Sherlock came up to him and took it, keying in the message. Then he paused. He wasn't quite sure what phone number he needed to send it to. He was cursing himself for not paying attention this morning. He handed John's phone back to him and went to the peg to get his suit jacket. “Tomorrow morning. Be at my home at seven.”

He slipped on his jacket as John gaped at him. He went to the door and had it open before John spoke again. “Where am I going, exactly?”

“221B Baker Street,” he said. He left the lab without waiting for a response, shutting the door behind him. He then walked quickly to the lift and then pressed the button for the basement once the lift doors opened and he stepped inside. He needed to get back to the experiment quickly or else it would be a waste of a morning. He was lucky in that no one else got on the lift and soon he was in the basement. He hurried to the morgue entrance but stopped at the door. Taped to the window was his phone, screen side down, and a note with his name on it. He took his phone and the note off the window and pocketed his phone before heading back to the lift. Once he got in and pressed the button for his floor he opened the note. _I must be a very good distraction for you to leave this in my office, and if you come in you'll distract me,_ the note began. _I hope taping it on the door is all right. If not I'll make it up to you later. Love, Molly._

He reread the note, looking at it intently. Neither of them had said that to each other yet. He was fairly sure he loved her, but he wasn't completely sure. If she did feel that way towards him he'd be elated, but he didn't know if he would be able to say it back. He frowned slightly as he read the note a third time. She probably wrote it without thinking about it, he decided after some thought. He pocketed the note as the lift opened up on his floor. He made his way back to the lab and opened the door. He hadn't missed the whole point of the experiment, he realized after a moment. He sat back down and observed the final stages of the experiment, satisfied that his results were the same ones his colleague had reached. He pulled out his phone and texted him back an affirmative reply before pocketing his phone again. Then he pulled the note out again, studying it intently.

This time he heard the door open and he looked up, expecting Molly. Stamford was there instead. “Sorry if I was too forward bringing John here without asking if you were busy first,” he said. “He had a few questions and I tried to answer them as best I could. I'm fairly sure I didn't scare him off.”

“It's fine,” Sherlock said. “As it stands, I think we might be a good fit.”

“That's good,” Stamford said with a grin. “How did the experiment go?”

“I got the desired results,” he said with a nod. “My colleague will be pleased.”

“Do you miss it at all?” Stamford asked. “I mean, doing research for a living. I've wondered that.”

“Not really,” Sherlock said, leaning forward. “There was something I greatly missed about consulting work, even if it does have a few drawbacks. I'm not overly fond of the publicity and I do miss making more money. But overall I suppose I would say I'm more fulfilled now than I was before.”

“The research community was really sorry to see you go,” he replied. “You were doing great things.”

“I suppose,” he said thoughtfully. “I appreciate you helping me with my problem.”

Stamford chuckled. “Well, he hasn't agreed to take the room yet. I could have been mistaken in scaring him off.”

“I suppose we'll find out tomorrow,” Sherlock said with a faint grin.

“I suppose so,” he replied. “I'll let you get back to work now. Take care, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded towards him and he left the room. About forty minutes later his door opened up again and this time it was the person he had hoped for. Molly had a wide smile on her face. “I have a surprise for you,” she said.

“A pleasant one, I'm taking it,” he said, standing up.

“My bosses have decided that they want to see what the new pathologist I've been training can do on his own, only they forgot to tell me. He arrived for his shift twenty minutes ago and he's going to take care of the rest of the backlog. I'm free for the rest of the afternoon.”

Sherlock grinned. “As it stands, my experiment is finished so I'm free as well. Do you have any ideas about what we should do?”

“Food and then maybe a film? I mean, if that sounds good to you,” she said as he got closer. “I'm sure we can find something at the cinema you might enjoy.”

“I'll be nice and sit through any film you choose,” he said.

“Oh, my day just keeps getting better and better,” she said with a laugh as he went to slip on his coat. “Other than running down to my part of the hospital to retrieve you phone earlier, how has your day been so far?”

“I might have a flatmate,” he said thoughtfully. “Stamford brought him up. His name is John Watson.”

“Did you talk to him?” she asked.

“Not really,” he said.

She shook her head. “You Sherlock scanned him and that was it? That probably scared him off.”

“Sherlock scan?” he asked, confused.

“The ability you have to look at a person and figure out their entire life. You're Sherlock, you scan them. Hence Sherlock scan.”

“It sounds silly,” he said after a moment. “But it's also quite true.”

“Well, I can't help that it sounds silly,” she said with a chuckle. “But it makes it easier to explain.”

“I suppose,” he said thoughtfully. “It is more complicated than that, though.”

“I know. That's why I don't even attempt to do the same thing.” He got close enough for her to reach over and pull him against her, and after a moment she hugged him.

“What's that for?” he asked before holding her close.

“I don't know. I just felt like doing it,” she said, lifting her head up and giving him a smile. “And besides, you always tend to keep me close when we're alone, and right now we're alone.”

“We are, aren't we?” he said.

“So we should be even closer,” she replied. Instead of kissing her, though, he pulled away slightly. She frowned at him. “Sherlock? What's wrong?” she asked.

“Do you love me?” he asked quietly.

Her eyes widened. “Why would you think that?” she asked.

His heart sank slightly at her response. He pulled away even more and pulled out her note, handing it to her. “Your note,” he said quietly as she unfolded it.

She started at it for a moment, lowering the note but not looking up at him. “I didn't exactly want it to come out like this. I could play it off as just a slip, that that's how I normally sign notes to people I care about. But I guess the answer is yes, I love you. It feels just a little fast, considering we've only been dating for a little over a month and a half, but it started when you invited me to your home to consult of the tattoo case. When we would take a break and talk about our lives, I realized I was developing a crush on you. And it just got worse and worse the more time we spent together. And then at the museum when you were talking about how you felt and then I said you could kiss me and then I kissed you...I fell in love around some point then, which is stupid because we'd literally _just_ started dating. I just hadn't said anything because it felt fast and I know you don't feel the same way, not re--”

Whatever she was going to say he stopped by pulling her close and kissing her. She leaned into him and grasped his coat lapels as though they were keeping her on her feet. This was probably one of the kisses she would say was toe curling. When they needed to pull apart to breathe he rested his forehead against hers. Her admission had been the tipping point. He knew how he felt now, and he knew just what to say. “I love you, Molly,” he said quietly, keeping his hand to the small of her back, pulling her as close against him as he could.

“Really?” she asked, her voice very hopeful.

“Yes, really,” he said softly

“I love you too, Sherlock,” she said quietly before leaning in to kiss him again. They stayed like that for quite some time inside his lab before they pulled apart. “I would very much like to do more of that somewhere more comfortable and more private,” she said.

“What do you mean, exactly?” he asked.

“I think I'd like to go to one of our homes and just be very close to you for a while. Someplace where it would just you and I and we could be close.” She looked up at him again. “Do you want to do that?”

He nodded slowly. “That sounds nice.”

“Then let's skip food and the movie and go back to your home. Or my home. Either one. We can eat later when we absolutely have to.”

“Your home is closer, right?” he asked.

She nodded. “I'm two blocks away.”

“Then we should go there,” he murmured before leaning in more. She took the hint and kissed him again, and this time lasted longer than the others. “And I will stay as late as I can. I don't want to waste this opportunity.”

She played with his suit jacket again for a moment. “You can stay all night, if you want,” she said tentatively. “Nothing has to happen, but I've thought about falling asleep in your arms at night.”

“Only if you're sure.”

“I am,” she said with a nod. “Do we want to go now?”

He nodded. “I think that might be best.” He reluctantly let go of her and then reached over for her hand. He had the feeling tonight might bring with it another change to their relationship. Perhaps not intercourse but definitely a new level of intimacy. And he found himself rather eager for it. From the wide smile on her face she was just as eager, and keeping that in mind he relaxed. Today and tonight would go well, and things would continue on the course they had been on without problems in the foreseeable future. Or at least he hoped that was the case.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock awoke the next morning in a room that was not his own, with Molly curled up beside him. They had spent the entire afternoon and a large chunk of the evening at her home, only leaving to get something to eat. When they were done they returned to her home and soon afterward retired to bed. He had been nervous at first that it would be hard to share a bed with someone else, but he had gotten a full night's rest and, apparently, so had she. Right now he was on his back and she was facing him, her face burrowed in the crook of his neck and her body pressed against him. He wanted to enjoy this a little more but his phone had died and he hadn't thought to ask her to set her alarm. After a moment he pulled away from her and pulled his arm out from under her neck so he could check his watch. His eyes widened when he realized it was quarter to seven. He sat up and looked over at her. He really didn't want to leave her in bed alone, but he was expecting John in fifteen minutes and he was not very close to his home at the moment.

“Sherlock?” she asked sleepily, sitting up slightly. She yawned and blinked before looking at him. “Is something wrong?”

“My potential flatmate is going to be at my home in fifteen minutes and I'm not there,” he said, getting off the bed. She looked over at him. “I should have had you set your alarm for me.”

“Well, we were both preoccupied,” she said, sitting up more. She watched him look around with an amused look on her face. “Your shoes are by the door, and your suit jacket is out in the sitting room.”

“Thank you,” he said with a nod. He paused for a moment, then went back over to the bed and sat on it slightly, leaning over to kiss her. He intended it to be quick but just as it had happened many times the day before neither of them ended it very quickly. Very reluctantly he finally pulled away. He glanced at his watch again and saw he now had eleven minutes. “There's no way I'm making it in time,” he said with a sigh, hanging his head slightly.

She chuckled slightly. “Well, you get as set to rights as you can and go home. I'm going to go back to sleep.” She lay back down in the bed, though this time she watched him. “If I were you I'd tuck in your shirt before you put your jacket back on.”

He shook his head. “Not enough time.” He got his shoes and put them on as quickly as he could, giving her one final glance. If he didn't have to get home as quickly as he possibly could he'd go right back to that bed and pull her close and go back to sleep. “I am sorry I have to leave,” he said as he opened the door to her bedroom.

“Well, if we do this again tonight I'll make sure we actually have the alarm set,” she said as she stretched slightly. He watched her with rapt attention for a moment, and she looked at him with an even more amused grin. “I imagine you have even less time now. I'd hurry if I were you.”

“I will call you later,” he said, stepping outside of her room.

“I'll hold you to that,” she called out as he shut the door behind him.

He went out into the sitting room and grabbed his suit jacket, which had been draped across the back of her chair. He didn't bother to slip it on. He didn't immediately see his coat, but as he glanced at his watch he saw he had nine minutes to get back home. There was absolutely no way he would make it, but he should at least _try_. He could always get his coat later. He made his way to her door and opened it, setting the lock before he stepped outside and closed it behind him. Then he made his way outside and hailed a cab as quickly as he could. He told the driver to make haste. He regretted it a moment later as the driver sped through the streets of London, but he made remarkably good time. Sherlock arrived home twenty minutes after he had left Molly's home. John was nowhere to be seen, he thought as he frowned. He hoped he hadn't decided to leave.

He went to his door and went inside his home, hearing conversation in the sitting room, and after a moment he relaxed. It looked as though Mrs. Hudson had invited him inside. He made his way up the stairs to the sitting room and saw John in one of the chairs, his cane leaned up against it. Mrs. Hudson was in the kitchen, preparing tea. “I'm very sorry I'm late,” he said as he stepped into the room.

Mrs. Hudson turned and stared at him with a look of absolute shock on her face. “You look a mess, dear,” she said quietly. “Are you all right?”

“I overslept,” he replied, running a hand through his hair.

“Where were you at?” she asked. “The hospital? Or a shelter of some sort?”

He was quiet for a moment, flushing slightly. He really hated having this reaction. “I spent the night at Molly's home. Neither of us thought to set an alarm. I left in a hurry.”

Mrs. Hudson's face suddenly took on a wide grin. “Good for you, Sherlock,” she said warmly.

“Nothing happened,” he said insistently.

“Who is Molly?” John asked, looking at Sherlock intently.

“My girlfriend,” he said, moving to the opposite chair and sitting down.

John studied him for a moment. “I did some research on you. You don't see the type to have a girlfriend,” he said.

“Well, I have one,” he said. “We've been dating for a month and a half. She works at the hospital where I met you.”

“Huh,” John said after a moment. He leaned forward slightly. “There's a lot written about you in the press. You were some sort of child prodigy, right? Solved a major case for Scotland Yard at eight?”

Sherlock nodded. “I did,” he said slowly.

“I remembered hearing about you when I was younger. You seemed like a bit of a snob. Are you still that way?”

“No,” he said. “Certain life experiences left me rather humbled.”

Both men drifted into silence at that point, and Sherlock thought it might be because there were questions John had that he wasn't sure how to broach. He didn't mind the silence, but after a moment it was broken. “I was telling him about the flat while we were waiting,” Mrs. Hudson said from the kitchen. “Mr. Watson seems to be a good man.”

“I inferred that much yesterday,” Sherlock said with a nod, leaning back in his chair. “And since Stamford vouched for him that was a plus.”

“But you don't know anything about me,” John pointed out.

“I know enough. I did some research of my own, earlier in the afternoon.”

“Before you got distracted?” Mrs. Hudson said in a teasing tone.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson,” he said with a sigh, glancing towards the kitchen. She chuckled in response and he frowned. He was not at all sure why she found this so amusing. He turned to look at John again. “Anyway. I don't think my initial opinion of you has changed.”

“And just what was your initial opinion?” John asked.

Before Sherlock could reply he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Both he and John turned, and after a moment Sherlock saw Lestrade get to the doorway. He looked at Sherlock with a mild glare. “Your little stunt yesterday got my supervisors to reconsider their stance on the suicides,” he said. Then he paused. “Oh. Didn't realize you had company.”

“Lestrade, this is John Watson. John, this is Greg Lestrade,” Sherlock said, standing up.

“Dear God, man. What in the hell happened to you?” Lestrade asked, his eyes wide.

Sherlock shut his eyes. “I can't possibly look that bad,” he said after taking a deep breath and counting to ten in his head. He opened his eyes and looked at Lestrade again. “It's not as though my clothing is torn and I'm sporting a black eye.”

“Well, you always look immaculate,” he replied. “And right now you look like you just rolled out of bed. Did you sleep in those clothes? They're very wrinkled.”

“I did,” he said.

If it was at all possible Lestrade's eyes widened slightly, and then a slow grin spread across his face and he got a knowing look about him. “You weren't here last night,” he said.

“No, I wasn't,” he said, beginning to get irritated. “Am I consulting on this case or not?”

“You are,” Lestrade said with a nod. “And there's been another victim.”

Sherlock glanced over at John for a moment. “Would you like to see me work?” he asked.

“What, like going to a crime scene?” John asked, looking from Sherlock to Lestrade and then back to Sherlock. Sherlock nodded. “That could be interesting,” he said slowly.

“Excellent. Give me some time to change into fresh clothing,” he replied.

“You might want to take a shower, too,” Lestrade said with a smirk. “Just in case.”

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh. “All we did was sleep next to each other. That's it. _Nothing else happened._ ”

“Well, if that's your story...” Lestrade said.

Sherlock shook his head, glaring at his friend. “Just give me the address to the crime scene. We'll meet you there.”

Lestrade pulled out his notepad and ripped off the top sheet of paper. Sherlock got closer and took it from him, glancing at it. “Try your best not to spend too long getting ready, all right? I want to have the scene processed as quickly as possible.”

“I'll be ready in five minutes. Ten at most,” Sherlock said.

“So none of you will be having tea?” Mrs. Hudson asked from the kitchen.

“I'm afraid not,” Sherlock said, looking back towards the kitchen.

“Pity,” she said. “Well, I'll enjoy a cuppa to myself. You boys have fun at your crime scene.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock and Lestrade said at almost the same time.

They glanced at each other and Lestrade chuckled for a moment before he got a serious look on his face. “Ten minutes,” Lestrade said towards Sherlock. “I'll be waiting.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said with a nod. Lestrade turned and left at that point, and Sherlock turned back to John. “I'll be ready momentarily.”

“Take your time,” John said, looking slightly dazed. Sherlock left the sitting room and made his way to his bedroom. He stripped out of his day old clothing and pulled out a fresh shirt and a clean suit. He got dressed as quickly as he could, and once he knew he looked his best he made his way out to the sitting room. John had gotten out of his seat and was standing by the mantle, staring at the skull on it. “Is that real?” he asked when he turned around.

“It's an old friend,” he replied. And that was true; he'd had that skull since he was a boy. It had always served as a reminder of his old life, and while he probably should have tossed it into the rubbish bin ages ago he found it held some sentimental value. John gave him a quizzical look and he shrugged in response. “We should be off,” he said.

“Aren't you going to put on a coat, dear?” Mrs. Hudson asked, pouring herself a cup of tea. “It's a bit chilly.”

“I left it at Molly's home,” he said. “And I don't have time to retrieve it right now.”

“Well, try not to catch your death of cold,” she said.

“I will,” he said as he nodded. He made his way to the door, moving slowly so John could keep up. Even if his injury was psychosomatic, he honestly believed he was injured that badly and so he would be moving accordingly. John got to the door a minute or so after Sherlock did and they made their way outside. It was a cool morning, Sherlock realized, and it would probably stay this cool all day, but he could handle it for one day. Sherlock hailed them a cab and they got inside, Sherlock entering first. Once they were settled he gave the driver the address for the crime scene and then he turned to look at John. “So I suppose you have questions,” he said quietly.

“You told me yesterday the little signs I was in the military and had recently returned from the war,” John said after a moment. “How did you know? I mean, how did you figure it out?”

“I can pick up small details when I look at a person and deduce any number of facts from what I see,” he replied. “My girlfriend calls it Sherlock scanning.”

“That sounds a bit silly,” John said. “No offense to her.”

“Even she admitted that,” he said with a faint smile. “But it's an apt description.”

“What else could you tell about me?” he asked.

“You have a distanced relationship with your brother, who is an alcoholic,” he said. “You also have some money but you spend it frugally as opposed to spending it on extravagant things. You're a bachelor and have never been married, though you do know quite a few women.”

John gave him a slight grin. “And how did you get all that?” he asked.

“When I borrowed your phone. I saw the engraving on the back, 'To Harry, From Clara.' Most people won't give away a phone like that unless the relationship is over, and judging by the scratch marks at the charger site it would seem as though Harry's drinking problem was at least part of the reason. People who are drunk have bad eye hand coordination. The fact that you had someone else's phone shows that while you have money you choose to use it on the absolute necessities. And finally, I saw your text messages before I keyed in my own. The one I read was from a female who said you never see her or any of your friends anymore, and all the friends she named were female. Considering you don't have a wedding band on and no tan line on that finger I deduced you were not in any relationship, and if you were ignoring females for a long enough time that your friend was concerned it was safe to assume it has been that way for some time.” He looked over at John, who looked surprised. “Was I off the mark?”

“That's bloody brilliant,” he said, a little wide eyed. “Just one problem, though.”

“Oh?” Sherlock replied.

“Harry is short for Harriet,” John said, a grin forming on his face.

After a few seconds Sherlock grinned back as well. “Usually I'm never wrong,” he replied.

“Well, a lot of people make that mistake,” he replied with a slight chuckle. He shook his head after a moment. “You really are as brilliant as everyone says.”

“I suppose I am,” he said with a nod. “I don't tend to brag about it, though. When I was a child I had an inflated ego, but that got tempered greatly by the time I stopped consulting for Scotland Yard, and experiences as an adult continued that.”

“What type of experiences?” John asked.

“When I was a child I failed to solve a few cases in a timely enough manner and other people got hurt or killed,” Sherlock said quietly. “As an adult I dealt with people who were convinced I was just a flash in the pan, that I wasn't as brilliant as I had claimed, because I stepped away from consulting. And in my chosen profession I had occasionally made mistakes that had repercussions that were not all that pleasant. Nothing overly serious, but sometimes months of research had to be discarded and the project had to start over. A few times it worked out for the best, but not always.”

“What did you do for a living?”

“I was a research scientist,” he replied. “I was quite good at my job, but it wasn't all that fulfilling for me. I have found that now I prefer consulting.”

“Why would you go back to consulting, though?” John looked slightly confused. “If you stepped away from it for so long there had to be a really good reason why you'd go back to it. Something important, I mean.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, debating how much to tell him. If John was seriously considering moving in with him he should know the truth. “The man that was put in prison for the case I solved when I was a child, the first case...he's plotting a game with me. There will be more murders and more acts of violence that will keep me from going back to my old life and will also keep the populace on edge. We have no idea what acts are planned or who is involved or how often they will strike.”

John's eyes got very wide. “That's horrible,” he said.

“I agree. I've gone back to consulting to try and disrupt as much of his plan as I can. The majority of the cases I work are not connected to Moriarty, but there have been two cases so far that he was involved in. I didn't consult on the first one, where the threat was delivered, but I did solve the second one.” He paused. “Those I am close to could be in danger. You should know that up front.”

John was silent for a few minutes, and Sherlock was thinking he might be reconsidering the whole thing. Then he spoke again. “I still need to think about it, but there's danger all over, right? So there isn't much point in living in fear that something might happen. I could always take steps to protect myself.”

Sherlock relaxed. “The other people I have in my life feel much the same way,” he said with a nod.

“Well, then they're quite sensible people,” John said with a faint grin. “I suppose we should change the subject. If I'm going to a crime scene I'd at least like to know a little bit about what I should expect. Can you tell me?”

Sherlock nodded. He began to speak, going over everything he knew and suspected. It was good to have someone to help, he realized. He felt he always did better when that was the case. And as he spoke and John offered thoughts of his own he started to hope that maybe, if he was lucky, John might stick around for a long while.


	3. Chapter 3

They arrived at the scene nearly forty minutes later. Sherlock got out first and waited for John to get out. Once John was out and he was leaning on his cane they made their way to the cordoned off crime scene. Sally was standing there, directing some crime scene technicians. As Sherlock ducked under the crime scene tape she turned to him, glancing at her watch. “Eight minutes after Greg got here. Impressive,” she said with a slight grin.

“I always try and be prompt,” Sherlock replied with a slight shrug. He was cordial with Sally and many of the other people he had had to work with so far, but he wasn’t particularly close to any of them. Sally might be the one he knew the most about, but that was only because she was friends with Molly. They had a decent working relationship, at the very least. 

“Where’s your coat?” she asked. “I know you usually have a pair of gloves in your pocket.”

He paused. “At Molly’s,” he said quietly.

She grinned. “Oh, I can’t wait to talk to her today.”

He scowled slightly. “Is the victim inside the building?”

She nodded. “Yes, on the very top floor.” She signaled for a technician to come over. “Get Sherlock some gloves?” she told him. The man nodded and moved away to a kit. Then she turned to John. “And apparently both Sherlock and I are rubbish at introductions. I’m Sally Donovan.” She offered him her hand.

John shifted his hold on his cane and then extended his hand towards her. “John Watson.”

“Are you Sherlock’s new assistant?” she asked as she shook his hand. “Because if you are, Molly’s going to be disappointed she doesn’t get to help anymore.”

“No, he’s a potential flatmate,” Sherlock said as the technician returned with a pair of gloves. Sherlock took them from him. “If Molly wants to assist me occasionally I won’t tell her no. But for now John is assisting me.”

“Well, she’ll probably end up doing this autopsy as well, so she’ll be involved regardless.” She pointed to the building. “I’ve probably kept you too long. Greg is waiting for you.”

Sherlock nodded. “Thank you,” he said. He began to move towards the building, keeping his pace relatively slow so John could keep up. They made their way inside and he looked up. There were quite a few stairs, and as the building looked old and decrepit he doubted the lift was working. He turned to John. “Will the stairs be a problem?”

“They won’t be pleasant, but I’ll manage,” he said. He made his way over to the stairs and Sherlock followed.

The two of them made their way up to the top and found Lestrade there in the blue coveralls everyone was required to wear at an active crime scene. He glanced at his watch. “You’re late.”

“We were speaking to Sally downstairs,” Sherlock said. “And John uses a cane.” He moved closer to the body but Lestrade cleared his throat. Sherlock knew he wanted him to put on the coveralls but there was no need. He knew not to contaminate the scene, and wearing them would make it harder for him to do what he needed to do. In addition he felt the things made everyone who wore them look bloody ridiculous. He put on the gloves he had gotten outside and ignored Lestrade, going to the body. He knelt down next to it as Lestrade sighed.

“I take it he never does that?” John said from behind him.

“Some childhood habits are hard to break, apparently,” Lestrade muttered. Then he paused. “They’ve already photographed the body, Sherlock. We’re just waiting for it to be picked up now,” he said in a slightly louder voice.

At that point Sherlock nodded and tuned out their conversation, looking at the scene. He lifted up the woman’s hand and studied it. The woman’s fingernails were broken and there were wood splinters underneath them. He had grabbed his spare pocket magnifier before he left his home and he pulled it out. He examined the body carefully, and then finally stood up as John came over, dressed in the blue coveralls. Sherlock moved away and watched him do his own studying of the body. “You see what I see,” Sherlock said after a moment as John looked up at him.

“That this is a suicide that she was forced to commit?” John said. Sherlock nodded. “Yes, I do see that.”

“She scratched something into the floor,” Lestrade said, pointing near the two men.

John stood up and the two of them moved over to it. “Rache,” Sherlock murmured.

“It’s German for ‘revenge,’” one of the technicians said from nearby. Of all the technicians involved in Scotland Yard Phillip Anderson was the one he got along with the least. They could work together, but it appeared that Anderson didn’t like him very much and frankly Sherlock had a few choice thoughts of his own about the other man. Still, they usually kept those thoughts to themselves.

“I know that,” Sherlock said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He was already irritated from everyone’s reactions to the fact he had spent the night at Molly’s home, and having to deal with Anderson was definitely going to test his patience today. “But who would she want revenge on?”

“I don’t know. The person who murdered her?” Anderson said in a slightly snide tone.

It was going to be one of _those_ days, Sherlock thought to himself as he shut his eyes and counted to ten. He opened them and resisted the urge to glare at the man. “Did she have any personal belongings with her?”

Lestrade shook her head. “She’d just returned from a business trip. We’re looking for her luggage and phone now.”

Sherlock nodded. “If you find the luggage let me know.”

“And if you find it first?” Lestrade asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’ll give it to you eventually,” he replied evasively.

“Sherlock, it’s evidence,” Lestrade said with a sigh.

“I need to view it before your crime scene technicians take everything out of it,” he said.

Lestrade shut his eyes. Sherlock was fairly sure Lestrade was doing exactly what he himself had done moments before. “If you find it, call me immediately,” he said slowly. “Or better yet, you can tell us where to find it and then we can all go down to the lab and you can open it up there.”

“I’m not exactly sure where it is,” he replied. “But I’ll tell you probable places it could be.”

“Fine,” Lestrade said. He pulled out his notepad. “Tell me now.”

Sherlock thought for a moment and then said the first five places he could think of where he knew it wasn’t. He had lied to Lestrade, of course. He was 98% sure he knew exactly where it was. But he wanted time to study it on his own and if it was taken to the crime lab everyone would be rushing him and he detested being rushed. He looked over to John and nodded towards the exit. “I’m finished here,” he said.

John nodded, and the technician who was holding his cane came over to him with it. He moved away from the body and leaned the cane on the wall so he could get out of the coveralls. Lestrade did the same from nearby. When they were finished John looked over at Sherlock and the two men made their way down the stairs. “You weren’t telling him something,” John murmured when they were down an entire flight of stairs.

“What makes you think that?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“I could see it when you talked to the Detective Inspector. You were hiding something.”

Sherlock was impressed. Most people couldn’t tell when he was lying to their face or he was keeping a secret from them. His brother was able to spot it immediately, and he had found Molly perceptive to it on one or two occasions as well, though it had always been her observing him being that way with others. His romantic relationship was still new to him but he knew enough not to lie to her or keep secrets from her. “I know exactly where the luggage is. Or at least I’m fairly sure I do.”

“And you’re going to get it and not tell him,” John said slowly.

“That was the plan, yes,” Sherlock said with a nod. “I will call him to come retrieve it when I’m finished with it.”

John shook his head. “You’re going to anger him if you do that.”

“He doesn’t have to know when exactly I found it,” Sherlock said. They made their way down the rest of the stairs and outside again. Sherlock ducked under the crime scene tape and after a moment John did too. They walked for a ways until they saw cabs there. He hailed one and the two men got in. “Go down four blocks and stop,” he told the driver.

The driver started the cab and drove the four blocks, stopping at the curb. Sherlock got out and went into an alley, and then came back with a suitcase in hand. He got back into the cab as John looked at him. “The victim’s?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll call Lestrade in a few hours and have him come pick it up. But for now, I’m going to carefully examine it.” He gave the driver the address to St. Bart’s and they settled in for the trip.

“Why not go home?” John asked, leaning back into his seat more.

“I don’t have the equipment to really study it at home,” he said. “And I’m not in the mood for Lestrade to retaliate if he surmises I already have it. If I’m at the hospital he won’t do something like bring technicians and law enforcement personnel there on some trumped up search.” Sherlock shrugged. “He’d most likely call it a drugs bust or something. And he’ll probably be at the hospital shortly getting the autopsy results from Molly, anyway.”

“So she’s a pathologist?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded. “One of the best in the country, actually,” he said with a grin. “You’ll probably meet her today. She’s supposed to be in at work at ten. I doubt her superiors will let either of her coworkers do this autopsy since she did the first ones and noticed the pattern.”

“That sounds impressive,” John said.

“Well, once the first two bodies had come in she thought it was unusual but didn’t think much of it because there had been two other suicides that same week, but not by the same means. When the third body arrived in her morgue that had committed suicide the same way she took notice and brought it to the attention of myself and Lestrade. I thought something was amiss but when Lestrade told his superiors her suspicions they didn’t want a panic. Hence the press conference yesterday.”

“Something at that press conference set those reporters off towards the end,” he said, giving Sherlock a shrewd look.

“That would have been the blanket text messages I sent to all of them saying it really was murder,” Sherlock said, shrugging slightly. “I may not be as much of a prat as I was when I was a child but I can still do things to make sure I get my way. I knew if the media was convinced these supposed suicides were the work of a serial killer Scotland Yard would call me in to consult because there would be a lot of pressure for them to get the man off the street.”

“Well, I hope taking the luggage doesn’t cost you your job,” he said.

“I don’t think the retribution will be that bad, if there is any.” He was quiet for a moment. “Perhaps we could discuss what we each observed from the body.”

“All right,” John said with a nod. He launched into what he had seen, and Sherlock added what he had noted. By the time they pulled up to Scotland Yard and made their way to his lab he had a fairly good idea of what had happened to their victim. John went over to one of the stools and sat down as Sherlock put the suitcase on the table. He had been careful to touch the luggage as little as possible because he knew once Lestrade did get it he would want to dust it for fingerprints. He went and got a fresh pair of gloves and put them on before opening it. He rummaged around in it, examining each item inside. An hour later he sighed and put everything back in almost exactly as he had found it, closing the lid. “Didn’t get any answers, I take it?” John asked from his perch.

“None that will help with this case,” he said sourly. He reached for his phone and frowned before remembering he had left it at home plugged into his charger. This was the second time in two days he had forgotten it somewhere. This was getting to be a bad habit. He looked over to John and held out his hand. “I need to borrow your phone again.”

“You’re not going to peek through my text messages again, are you?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as he pulled his phone out of his pocket.

“No. I’m going to call Lestrade and tell him to come retrieve the luggage,” he said, taking the phone once John had it out. He had Lestrade’s number memorized thankfully and he keyed it in with ease. “I’m at St. Bart’s,” he said as soon as Lestrade answered.

“Can’t even wait for me to say hello, which means you already found the luggage and have gone through it,” he said with a sigh.

“I was careful not to touch it without gloves,” he replied.

“Did you at least learn anything from it?” Lestrade asked.

“Nothing. The only thing of note is that she appeared to be on a business trip and yet there was no laptop in her luggage.

“Well, we didn’t find one nearby her,” he said. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. You’re at your lab, right?”

“Yes. Has the body been delivered to the morgue yet?”

“Should have just gotten there. But you had best stay with that luggage until I get there to take it off your hands. I may not be able to use anything inside as evidence since you went outside the chain of evidence but I don’t want it stolen, either.”

“I doubt you would have gotten anything from it, either. The suitcase was wiped clean.”

“I bet your fingerprints are on it,” Lestrade said.

“No, I hadn’t taken off my gloves before I retrieved it, and I put on fresh gloves as I examined it. I’m not stupid, Lestrade.”

“Sometimes I wonder,” he said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sherlock asked incredulously.

“You took a piece of evidence away from where it was left without documenting it. Even if we _had_ gotten evidence from it we wouldn’t be able to admit it into court. I should be more cross at you than I am, but I figure if you couldn’t find anything neither would our crime scene team.” He sighed again. “Just stay by it and _then_ go down to the morgue, all right?”

“Fine,” he said sullenly. He hung up at that point and stayed quiet. There were times he wondered if his need for answers would be his ruin in this new career path he was on. He hated having to follow the rules set in place by Scotland Yard and the court system, but he supposed he had to play along. He wasn’t a child who could claim he didn’t know any better anymore. He knew the rules, he had just chosen to ignore them. One day that might end up costing him or someone else something dear. He needed to keep that thought firmly in place now. He pulled himself from these thoughts after a moment and handed John back his phone. “Thank you for the use of your phone.”

“You’re welcome,” John said, pocketing it. “I take it he wasn’t happy?”

“No, he wasn’t,” Sherlock said, drifting over to another stool and sitting down. “I think I would have pushed him too far if I had actually found evidence we could have used. As he told me, it would all be inadmissible in court because I broke the chain of evidence.”

“Then I suppose it’s a good thing you didn’t find anything,” John said quietly.

“I suppose so.” The two men lapsed into silence and nearly twenty minutes later Lestrade came into the lab to retrieve the suitcase. He didn’t say much to Sherlock, and when he was done he left again. Sherlock looked over at John once the door shut behind Lestrade. “Molly should be here by now. I doubt she will have started the autopsy, but we can at least check.”

“All right,” John said with a nod, standing up. He reached for his cane and once he was situated the two men headed out of the lab and over to the lift. They got in and Sherlock pressed the button for the basement. When they got there he led the way to the morgue and pushed open the doors. “Bit cold down here,” he said.

“It’s a basement,” he said with a slight shrug. He didn’t see Molly there. “Molly?” he called out.

“How did I guess you’d be here?” she called over from the office in a pleasant voice before opening her door. She grinned at him. “I’m surprised you’re not freezing. You left my home in a hurry this morning and left something important.”

“It’s not that cold,” he said, relaxing a bit. There was quite a bit a smile from her could do for his mood.

“Well, I brought it with me the minute they called me in to do the autopsy. It’s here in the office,” she said with a chuckle.

He moved over towards her. “Thank you,” he murmured, leaning in slightly.

“Don’t you dare kiss me while there’s someone standing there you haven’t introduced me to yet,” she said, putting a hand up. She was grinning as she said it though.

“Molly, John Watson. John, Molly Hooper,” he said quickly.

“Potential flatmate?” she called over to John.

He nodded. “Yes.”

“Nice to meet you,” she said before she looked over at Sherlock. “Come into my office and get your coat, all right?” Then she turned back to John. “We’ll only be a moment.”

John chuckled. “Take your time,” he said.

She gave him a wide smile as she opened the door more widely for Sherlock to step inside. She shut the door behind him and then stepped close to him. “I had a fascinating conversation with Sally when she called to tell me about this newest victim,” she said, putting her hands on his chest and looking up at him. “Apparently all of Scotland Yard assumes we shagged last night.”

He groaned, hanging his head slightly. “I had hoped that wouldn’t be the case.”

“It could be worse,” she said. “I set her straight, and hopefully everyone else will listen to her. And if they don’t, it isn’t that big of a deal. I know what really happened last night, and so do you. It doesn’t really matter to me what other people think.”

“I am glad to know you feel that way,” he said, lifting his head up and looking at her.

“She’s going to know if we actually do, though, because she’s my best female friend and I’m going to want to share that news. But I’ll make sure she stays quiet about it.”

“Thank you.” He put his hands on her waist and after a moment slid them around to the small of her back to pull her as close as he could. She moved her hands up so she could put her arms around his neck. “It has been a very trying morning.”

“I can just imagine,” she said with a soft laugh. “I bet I can make it a little better though.”

“I think you can as well,” he murmured before he kissed her.

She kissed him back eagerly, and at least for the moment all the stress from that morning melted away. He would have kissed her longer but she pulled away from the kiss after a couple of minutes. “I do actually need to get to work,” she said quietly. “Greg wants these results as quickly as possible, and I know you’ll want them as well. And you have company out there.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he said. “Should I leave the morgue while you work?”

“If you think your new friend won’t vomit all over the place the two of you can observe as I do the autopsy,” she said. “I can actually work when you’re around.” Then she paused. “Most of the time.”

He chuckled slightly. “It might be best if we leave you in peace. You’ll call me when you’re finished?”

She nodded. “I’ll even call you before I call Greg.”

“Thank you.”

She didn’t move away, and after a moment she leaned in and kissed him again, though for a much briefer time. Then she moved her arms and he let her go. “Don’t forget your coat again.”

“I won’t.” He went over to the peg where it was hanging and then slipped it on. “I will see you later, then.”

“See you soon.”

He made his way out of the office while she stayed. “She’ll let us know when she’s done,” he said as he got closer to John.

“And what are we going to do?” he asked, turning back towards the door.

“We’re going to try and retrace our newest victim's steps. I have an idea.” He looked over at John. “Are you still willing to help me?”

John nodded. “To be honest, I think this whole morning has been quite interesting. I’d like to see where this leads.”

“All right then. Let’s catch a cab back to my home and I’ll fill you in on the way.” He opened the doors and with that the two of them left. He hoped his plan would work, because if it didn’t he would be back at square one. But if it did, another killer would be off the streets and London would be at least a little bit safer.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock had laid out the plan for John by the time they arrived back to his home. He'd had to contact Lestrade for a favor and while Lestrade had been reluctant he had agreed in the end. The only thing he made Sherlock promise was that if they ended up actually catching the killer that they call him immediately. Sherlock supposed that he didn't want either of them putting themselves in harm's way. He had promised he would, but he also knew there was no guarantee he would actually do it if push came to shove.

Molly had called him to tell him the autopsy results, as promised. He had put her on speakerphone so John could hear. Once again the victim was poisoned, and the toxicology screen had come back the same as the others: it was not a known poison. But this time there was a half-digested capsule in her stomach, along with what she had recently eaten. He had asked Molly to have her blood analyzed to find the exact chemical makeup of what was in her bloodstream, and she had promised she would get back to him as soon as she got the results.

Lestrade had called an hour later. They still hadn't found he victim's cell phone, and they were attempting to talk to her husband and try to see if he knew the password to her phone and any other information he could get about it, but he was out of town and it was becoming quite hard to reach him. Sherlock was sure finding the killer hinged on finding that phone. But until the husband was contacted there was nothing they could do.

As the hours ticked by he felt himself getting more and more anxious. He knew he was not pleasant company when he was on edge like that, but John was handling it well. He had decided to kill time by doing what he did several times a week. He pulled out his laptop and pulled up the photos of the last eight tattoos from the first case he worked on that Moriarty had orchestrated. After an hour John got up. Sherlock supposed he needed to move so his leg wouldn't hurt, and he watched him for a moment before John came up behind him, looking over his shoulder. “What are you doing, anyway?” he asked.

Sherlock turned to look up at him. “The first case I consulted about when I began doing this again had a killer who tattooed the victim with elaborate tattoos covering his entire body. We were able to decipher almost all of the tattoos on him except these eight.”

John leaned forward, looking intently at them. “Could I get a closer look?” he asked after a moment.

Sherlock nodded, setting his laptop aside and going to where he kept his files. His flat always looked a bit disorganized to those who were not used to it, but he could set his hands on any file he needed within a matter of seconds. He selected the file with the photos of the tattoos on the first victim of the killer as well as the tattoos of the woman they had saved and brought it over to the table, spreading them out. “These are the tattoos from the first victim.”

“First victim?” John asked as he came over. “I thought he only killed one person. At least that's what the media reported.”

“So you heard about the case?” Sherlock asked.

“Sure. It was all over the news you'd consulted on it. And it was an intriguing case. I mean, you don't often hear about a killer taking the time to do what he did.” He looked at the first of the eight tattoos closely. “But like I said, I thought there was only the one person who died.”

“The other victim survived. Her entire upper torso was covered in tattoos, though. I have photographs of those as well. I still haven't managed to make heads or tails of those, either. There are around thirty-four tattoos total. The ones on the woman were smaller than the ones on the man, probably because she was smaller.”

John looked at all of them for a moment, and then picked up the first one. “I assume you have them in this order for a reason.”

Sherlock nodded. “We realized the tattoos told a story. They started at the right shoulder and made their way across, and then he would continue the story underneath the first row of tattoos. Once he was finished with his front side he turned him over and continued the story on his back.” He pulled out the two tattoos of the building. “These two tattoos were the ones that had told us where he had kept the victim while he tattooed him. They were on the back of his thighs.”

“And this one was the next one in the row,” John said after a moment.

“Actually it was the row underneath. The two of the buildings were larger than the other six tattoos, but they each took up an entire leg.” Sherlock looked at the photograph over John's shoulder for a moment, and then his eyes widened. “I can't believe it,” he murmured.

“Can't believe what?” John asked with a frown as Sherlock plucked the photograph from his fingers.

“He wasn't telling us about other murders _he_ planned on committing in the rest of the tattoos,” he said. “He was telling us about the other crimes _Moriarty_ had planned for his story.” He turned to face John, holding the photograph in front of his chest where it caught the light better. “Tell me exactly what you see.”

John leaned in and looked closely. “I see a taxicab and a bottle...of...pills,” he said, trailing off. He looked at Sherlock with wide eyes. “You need to find out her medical history, see if she took any medications in capsule form.”

“Molly should have that by now, and hopefully the results I asked her for,” he said, going to his phone. He dialed Molly as quickly as he could, and he spoke the minute she answered. “Was the victim on any medications that were administered in capsule form?” he asked.

“I was just about to call you,” she said. “No, she wasn't. And your results came in. Do you have a pen and paper?”

“Give me a moment,” he said. He looked around and found a notepad, then searched for a pen. As soon as he found one that worked he balanced the phone between his ear and shoulder. “Give me the results.”

She reeled off quite a few names of chemicals, and the more she said the more he got the feeling he knew why the poison was undetectable. She finished soon after he came to that realization. “Did that help you?” she asked.

“More than you know,” he replied. “One of the research jobs I had years ago was for the government. They didn't tell us exactly what we were working on, only enough to satisfy our curiosity and ensure we did their work. I left the project as soon as I realized what they were really up to. As far as I know the project was scrapped weeks after I left, but every single one of these compounds were used in the research we were doing. If someone perfected the research they would have a very powerful weapon on their hands.”

“What was it?”

“A slow-acting poison that was completely undetectable, both by tests for poison as well as anyone ingesting it. It was only when you analyzed the blood and separated the compounds found there that you would see anything was amiss. They could kill anyone as long as they could slip the poison into something they were ingesting. The capsule that was in our victim was filled with the powder you get when you make the poison, but you could just as easily sprinkle it in a sauce or put it in a liquid.”

“Oh my God,” Molly said in a shocked voice. “So you think someone involved in the project replicated the result?”

“If they were able to get all the notes that all of us were working on, yes,” he said. “And there's something more. The third tattoo that we couldn't figure out. It was a taxicab and a bottle of pills.”

“So that tattoo was talking about this killer?”

“Yes, I think so. I need to get off the phone with you. I'm going to hunt down a killer.”

“Be careful, Sherlock. I don't want you getting hurt, or worse,” she replied in a worried tone.

“I will be careful, Molly. I promise.” He looked at his watch. “I need to call Lestrade now.”

“I love you,” she said quietly.

He smiled faintly after she said it. It was still a wonderful thing to hear her say. “I love you too, Molly. I'll talk to you later.”

“All right. Bye.”

She hung up at that point and the minute his line was free he pulled up Lestrade's contact and hit send. Once again he began speaking before the person he was calling spoke. “I know how the killer was poisoning the victims, I know the poison and I know that he's a cab driver,” he said as he began to pace.

“Slow down, Sherlock. That flew by me,” Lestrade said. “What do you know?”

“The killer is a cab driver who poisons his victims with a poison I had helped develop for the government many years ago,” he said, slowing down his speech slightly. “And this murder was spelled out in the third tattoo that we hadn't been able to figure out.”

“So the tattoo killer knew about this murderer?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock heard someone coming up the stairs but he ignored it for the moment. Whoever it was could wait. “I believe so. I think all of the tattoos we have left point to acts of violence that haven't happened yet. There are thirty-three other tattoos, and we have no clue how many more there would have been if we hadn't stopped him.” He ran a hand over his face. “But that isn't important right now. What is important is finding her phone.”

“Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson said from the doorway. “There's a cab waiting for you downstairs.”

He held up a hand towards her. “Do you know where her phone is yet?” he asked Lestrade.

“No, but we finally got a hold of her husband. Her password was Rachel, the name of her stillborn daughter.”

“Give me her phone number and her e-mail address,” he said, moving back to the notepad and pen.

Lestrade gave him the number and e-mail address before pausing. “Sherlock, what do you have planned?”

“I'm going to track the killer,” he replied.

“Sherlock, the driver is most insistent,” Mrs. Hudson said from the doorway.

He looked over at her as it registered what she had said and he pulled his phone away from his ear. “I'll be right there,” he said. “Go back to your part of the flat.”

“Are you sure?” she asked hesitantly.

“I am,” he said with a nod. She gave him an uneasy glance but she turned and left. He knew what he had to do now. He put his phone back to his ear. “Lestrade, I'm going to have John call you in a few moments. Go wherever it is he tells you to go. And go armed. I think I need to go have a chat with someone.”

“Sherlock--” Lestrade began, but Sherlock hung up on him.

He wrote down Lestrade's phone number before ripping the sheet of paper off his notepad. He went to his laptop and pulled up a website, then brought the computer to the table. Then he handed John the sheet of paper. “Use these to track her phone,” he said to a bewildered looking John.

“What are you going to do?” he asked as Sherlock went for his coat.

“I'm going to get answers,” he said.

“I'm coming with you,” John said.

“No. He doesn't want to talk to you. He wants to talk to me.” Sherlock looked at him. “He'll only talk to me. Just track her phone, all right?” Then he paused, going back to John and taking the paper out of his hand. He wrote down his own phone number, e-mail and password. “If her phone stops moving, track mine.”

“This is insane,” John said, gaping at him. “He could kill you!”

“I think I'm going to be quite safe,” he replied. “Moriarty has other plans for me. But just in case, you need to track me.”

John stared at him for a moment, and then sighed. “Fine. Just...be careful.”

“I will.” He put his phone on vibrate in case Lestrade called him back and slipped it into the pocket of his coat. Then he made his way outside, seeing an older man standing outside of a waiting cab. “You wanted to speak to me,” Sherlock said quietly.

“I did,” the man said with a nod. “Of course, I spoke with you earlier today, as you made your way to the crime scene. And again as you went to the hospital. But you didn't take notice of me. No one does, really.” He opened the door of his cab. “I think we should go somewhere with a little more privacy.”

“Very well,” he said, getting into the cab. The driver shut the door after him and then went behind the wheel. He pulled away from the curb and began to drive away from Sherlock's home. “Why do you do it?” Sherlock asked after a few minutes of silence.

“Well, I suppose it's an involved story, and I don't know if I'm inclined to share,” the driver replied. “But the short story is that I'm dying, and I wanted to leave my mark on the world. I wanted to be remembered.”

Sherlock studied his reflection in the rearview mirror intently. “Is that the reason the others will do it as well?”

“No, not everyone. Most will do it for other reasons. Some are quite insane, some are doing it for fun, some are doing it simply because they can. There's a variety of reasons why we've all decided to follow Moriarty's lead. But I suppose the reason that matters most to you is that he asked.” He paused. “Well, it was more his agents. They sought us out and offered us a chance to do something great, if we would just wait a few years. I'm fairly sure a few people got impatient, but there's always more to take their places if they got caught or killed.”

“How much do you all know about each other?” Sherlock asked.

The man glanced at him in the reflection. “Some know more details than others. I know a few, but not nearly as many as the tattoo artist. He was supposed to know. He was supposed to leave as many victims as he could so you'd have a guideline to your story. You just stopped him too quickly. So once the ones he had on your victims are done you'll be left in the dark, unless Moriarty finds another way to give you a glimpse of the grand plan.”

“Wonderful,” he murmured.

“You're special, Mr. Holmes,” the driver said. “It's not every child that takes such an avid interest in the criminal mind. And there is no criminal mind greater than James Moriarty's.”

“How so?” Sherlock asked, tilting his head slightly.

The driver chuckled. “He's built a grand criminal empire from behind bars. He's got more followers than you can imagine. He has his hands in just about everything. And he's done it all while encased in one of the best prisons in the country. You're going to have your hands full for the rest of your life, Mr. Holmes.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” he asked.

“Because I'm supposed to. Either you or your detective friend shot the messenger too soon when you caught him. He was supposed to tell you more than he actually did. So I was asked to step things up and fill in for him.”

“But _why_ ” Sherlock asked insistently. “If I know his plans I can stop them.”

“But that's the beauty of it, Mr. Holmes. No matter how many of us you go after, no one's privy to all the plans. And the plans can always change. You get a few hints, but they're just that. Hints.” He paused. “I'm actually quite surprised it took you this long to figure out the clue about me. Moriarty thought you were much smarter than that. So did I.”

Sherlock remained silent. The more the man spoke, the more he realized that he didn't have nearly enough information. This was going to go on for a very long time. Years, decades...he was probably going to spend the rest of his life caught up in this game, until Moriarty decided it was time to end it. And he wouldn't know anything once they deciphered the thirty-three tattoos they had left. He would be completely in the dark.

The driver continued to drive until he made his way to an abandoned school. Sherlock recognized the place; one of his first cases after Moriarty's had involved a student dying there. Strangulation by her teacher, if he remembered correctly, because the girl was going to come clean about their affair and her pregnancy. He had not completely understood the motivation at the time, but it had caused a huge scandal and the school had been forced to close its doors. He got the feeling that many more of his encounters with these criminals were going to involve his past.

The driver got out of the cab and opened Sherlock's door. Sherlock stepped out and saw he had a gun pointed at him. The driver gestured towards the school, and Sherlock began to walk in front of him. He gave Sherlock directions until they made their way to the cafeteria. Sherlock could only hope that John had told Lestrade where to be. The man gestured to one of the tables and Sherlock sat down. He watched the man set the gun on the table as he stood across from him, and he pulled out two vials of pills and set those on the table as well before he sat down. “The poison, I assume,” Sherlock said quietly

The driver nodded. “I offer my victims a choice. One of these pills is harmless, the other is filled with poison. I make them choose.”

“I think that's a lie,” Sherlock said. “I think they're both poison. No matter what they choose, they die.”

The driver smiled at him. “Perhaps you are as clever as everyone thinks. You're absolutely correct. One pill has the double strength poison that kills them quickly. The other has the slower acting version.”

Sherlock put his arms on the table and clasped his hands together. “Why this particular poison?”

“Because you worked on it,” the driver responded, pushing the pills towards him. “Moriarty followed your career very closely. There are bits and pieces of things you've worked on that he'll use to his advantage. This was just one example.”

“How did you get it?” Sherlock asked.

“Not everyone was pleased with what the government was researching. You weren't the only one to walk away from the project. That's why it was scrapped. But there were a few who saw the great potential a poison like that could offer, and one of them sold the formula to Moriarty for quite a hefty sum. Moriarty held onto it until it was my turn to come out of the woodwork. I used to be a chemist, you see. Before all of this. I could understand exactly what the formula entailed. So it was given to me and I was told to have some fun with it.” He tilted his head slightly. “And I did. But the fun has worn off and I don't want to follow the plan anymore.”

Sherlock was quiet. He had assumed he was safe from any harm himself. He should have known that some people involved in the plan would deviate not because the plan itself had changed but because they were being obstinate. Now he hoped John had done what he had been told to do even more fervently. Finally he spoke. “I know both of the pills are poison. I'm not stupid enough to take either one of them.”

“But see, that's where you're wrong. I made a special batch, just for you.” He pushed the bottles towards Sherlock. “One of the bottles has the poison pill. The other one is a placebo. You know all about placebos, don't you?”

Sherlock studied them. “And you want to see if I'm intelligent enough to spot the difference,” he said slowly.

“I think this is a much better game than what Moriarty has planned,” he said. “Let's see if you really are as intelligent as everyone thinks you are.”

Sherlock unclasped his hands and studied the bottles more closely. There was absolutely no difference between the capsules. The only way he would ever be able to tell was if he swallowed one, and there was a 50/50 chance he would make the wrong choice. He lifted his hand up and hovered it over one of the bottles. And then he knocked it over, glaring at the cab driver. “No.”

“No?” he asked, surprised. He stood up quickly. “You don't think this is a better game? You don't think you can cheat death?”

“I'm not going to play,” Sherlock said slowly. He stood up as well, looking at the man as he planted his hands on the table. “Your gun is not going to work. It's merely a prop that you use to coerce the victims into playing your game. I am not going to be another one of your victims. I'm going to walk away, call the police, and watch you spend whatever is left of your life in jail.”

He moved away from the table and began to walk away. He heard the man step away from the table. “This gun isn't,” he said, and Sherlock turned to face him, seeing he had a gun that could actually kill him in his hands. Suddenly he heard a gunshot and then there was a red stain blossoming on the front of the man's shirt. He fell down to the ground a moment later. Sherlock's eyes were wide as he went over to look where the shot had been fired from. He didn't see anyone there. He knelt down next to the man, who had blood leaking from the corners of his mouth. “It wasn't supposed to end this way,” he said, his voice muffled by the blood he was choking on.

“Perhaps this happens to everyone who doesn't play by the rules,” Sherlock said quietly. He watched the man take a final breath and then he died. Five minutes later he heard the cafeteria doors crash open, and he stood to see Lestrade coming in with Sally and a full tactical team behind him. “It's too late,” Sherlock said.

Lestrade lowered his gun and looked at Sherlock. “Were you right?”

“Partially,” he said. “I was right about this murder, but I was wrong about the motivation behind it.” He watched as everyone else lowered their weapons. “We need to talk soon, and at length. I know more about what we're up against.”

Lestrade nodded. “Emergency personnel will be here in a few minutes. I want them to check you out.”

“I'm perfectly fine. He didn't actually harm me.” 

“Still. You could still suffer from shock.”

Sherlock looked at him and then bit back his retort. All Lestrade was trying to do was take care of him, as a friend should. “All right. I'll go and let them check me out.” Then he paused. “Where's John?”

“I'm not sure. He just kept telling me where to go. He's probably still at your flat, or he might be outside.”

Sherlock thought for a moment. Perhaps the person who shot the killer wasn't somebody who was angry he wasn't following the plan, he thought to himself as he heard sirens getting closer. He's have to ask John if he was downstairs. He allowed Lestrade to lead him back down to the ground floor, and he saw the ambulance pull up just as they got outside. The emergency personnel came over to him and guided him to the back, putting a blanket around his shoulders. After he insisted he was fine for ten minutes straight they finally let him leave. He saw John standing off to the side, looking very different. “I see you don't have your cane,” he said as he got closer.

“You can't really run well with a cane in your hand,” he said with a shrug. “I guess you were right that it was all in my head.”

“I thought as much.” They remained silent for quite some time as Sherlock turned and they watched the scene. He didn't speak again until the body of the killer was wheeled out. “You know, it will be nice having company at home,” he said finally.

“How did you know I was planning on taking the room?” John asked, his eyes slightly wide.

“Because you shot a man to save me,” Sherlock said simply. “If that isn't a sign that we're going to be friends I don't know what else is.” He gave him a slight grin. “Thank you for that, by the way.”

“You're welcome,” John said, giving him a grin of his own. “I suppose I get to spend tomorrow moving in.”

“I will help when I return home,” he said, removing the blanket from his shoulders, handing it to John. “But right now there's someplace else I need to be.”

John nodded. “Do you think you'll be home by nine?” he asked.

“I'll make sure we set the alarm this time,” he said as he walked away from John. He made his way over to Lestrade. “I need a ride to Molly's home,” he said when he got to the older man.

Lestrade nodded. “Can I give you a piece of advice?”

“Of course,” he said.

“Don't tell her how close she came to losing you while she's close to anything she can throw at you that would hurt,” he said, giving him a sympathetic look. “I learned that lesson the hard way. And it probably wouldn't hurt if you kiss her the minute you walk through the door. Then she won't be as angry.”

“Thank you for the advice,” Sherlock said with a faint smile.

“I'll get a patrol car to take you there,” he replied, moving away from him. Sherlock watched him leave, not entirely sure he was going to have a pleasant conversation with his girlfriend. Still, he didn't feel like keeping secrets from her, and she deserved to see he was all right in person. So no matter what, he was going to go see her and tell her the truth. She had every right to know. He owed her that much.

Lestrade came back a few minutes later and told him which car to go to. He got in and watched as London flew by. The car had its lights on but not its sirens, which he supposed he had Lestrade to thank for. If Molly had heard sirens before he got to her door she might have been concerned, or at least more concerned than she probably already was. The patrol car pulled up to her curb and he got out, making her way towards her home. He got to the door and knocked on it softly. He heard the lock click a moment later and she opened the door, looking at him. “Sherlock,” she said in a relieved tone of voice.

He stepped inside and decided to follow Lestrade's advice, kissing her the minute he had gotten inside. He hadn't realized quite how much of a relief it was to have come out of the encounter alive until that moment, and he kissed her in a way that he hoped told her that he was thankful to still be alive. She must have realized that, because she kissed him back deeply, apparently not caring that her door was still wide open. She pressed herself close to him and kept kissing him until the need for the two of them to breath became apparent. She was panting slightly when she suddenly pulled away and hit him in the chest with her fists. “Molly--” he said.

“You almost died!” she said, taking a step back, and he knew immediately that he was going to throttle Sally the next time he saw her. She must have called Molly at some point between entering the scene and him arriving at Molly's home. “You went after a killer alone and for all you knew no one would get there in time and _you almost died_!” She said that last part rather loudly. She glared at him slightly. “I could have lost you so easily.”

He looked around briefly to make sure she had nothing within range to throw that would hurt upon impact. “It was the only way,” he said, reaching behind him to shut the door.

“Why couldn't you call the police yourself and trap him some other way? Why did you have to go alone with him? He had a gun!” She turned away from him and moved further into her sitting room. He took a step towards her when she suddenly turned around to face him again. “I should make you go home. I should break up with you for being such an idiot. And for lying to me. Did you even think about that promise you made me? You promised me you would be careful and then you almost got killed.” She stepped forward again. “You have no idea how upset I am with you right now, Sherlock. I'm absolutely livid.”

He looked at her, completely unsure of what to say or do. He really did not want his relationship to end tonight. It had been the best thing that had ever happened to him and if he lost it he wasn't sure what he would do. “I'm sorry. I'm very very sorry. I can't apologize enough,” he said quietly.

“No, you can't,” she said, crossing her arms.

“What can I do to make amends?” he asked, running a hand through his hair. “Is there anything at all that will suffice?”

She was quiet for a few minutes. She was quiet for so long that Sherlock was beginning to think there was absolutely nothing he would be able to do to fix this. Finally the anger seemed to fade away. “I knew your job could potentially be dangerous, but I didn't realize how much until tonight. I didn't realize that someone might actually try to kill you in this entire mess.”

He moved towards her again, pulling her close against him. After a moment she wrapped her arms around him and rested her cheek on his chest. “I didn't realize it either until tonight,” he said quietly. “I thought I would be safe from harm because that was what Moriarty wanted. I didn't even think that others might not feel the same way.”

“I don't know what I'd do if I lost you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don't want to think about it.”

“I know. I don't want to, either.” He held her close for a few more minutes before she pulled away slightly, looking up at him. “Tonight showed that anything can happen. Even if Moriarty laid down a set of ground rules there's no guarantee anyone will follow them anymore. Everyone is at risk. You, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, now John. Even me.” He was quiet. “Maybe it would be best if we end things. Maybe that will keep you safer. Because I don't think I would do very well if anything happened to you.”

“I don't want to do that,” she said adamantly without a moment’s hesitation. “I love you, Sherlock. I don't want to give you up because some psychopath decided to play this game with your life. I'm going to be in danger regardless so we might as well stay together. At least that way we can have some happiness in all this mess.”

He looked at her and nodded slowly. “All right. We will continue this relationship,” he said. Then he paused. “Am I still going to be sent home tonight?” he asked tentatively.

“I really should do that,” she said. “But I want you nice and close tonight. I want to constantly reassure myself that you're really all right.”

“Then I will stay here with you tonight,” he said, a knot in his gut unclenching. They were still going to be in a relationship and he wasn't going to be sent home tonight. This was a good end to the entire day. This was probably a much better end than he deserved, come to think of it. “What do you want to do now?” he asked.

She moved close to him again and kissed him softly. He kissed her back, letting her set the pace for the kiss. After a few minutes she pulled away from him, and he rested his forehead against hers. “I want to keep you as close as I can get you to be,” she said softly.

He put his hands on her waist, not quite sure of what she wanted. “What do you mean?” he asked.

She was quiet for a moment. “Nothing has to happen tonight. But if you were inclined, I wouldn't say no.”

“Are you sure that's what you want?” he asked.

“I'm very sure.” She pulled away and looked at him. “It's up to you, though. If you don't want to do that tonight, I'll wait until you feel comfortable.”

He ran a hand up and down her back. “It will probably be rubbish as I have absolutely no experience,” he replied.

She gave him a smile. “I will completely understand if the first few times aren't exactly spectacular,” she said. “But I can teach you, if you want to learn.”

He grinned at her as well. “I think those are lessons I would like to learn, starting tonight.” he said after a moment.

Her smile got wider. “All right,” she said, nodding slightly. She pulled away from him and took his hand in hers. “Let's go somewhere more comfortable.” As she led him to her bedroom he found he wasn't nearly as nervous as he thought he would be. This felt like the right time to take this step forward in their relationship, now that he knew they were going to continue to have one. It might bring complications of its own, but right now he didn't want to think about what might happen. He wanted to enjoy the moment because he was thankful he had the chance to do that at all, and he was fairly sure she felt the same way. At least for tonight, all was right with his world.


End file.
